


Color of Honor

by Teegar



Series: Short Stories Featuring Ensign Chekov [4]
Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Blood and Injury, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-23 05:30:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17677304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teegar/pseuds/Teegar
Summary: On an away team mission. Chekov defends an abused woman and thereby teaches a culture about honor.





	Color of Honor

**Color of Honor**

by Berkeley Hunt and T.S. Taylor

Ensign Chekov headed for the main transporter room at a fast trot, one hand still struggling with the fastenings of his cloak, the other gripping the hilt of his broadsword in a vain attempt to keep it from knocking against his legs. Like his cloak, the thigh-high tunic he wore was brilliant blue, embroidered with teal and white at the cuffs, collar and hem. After spitting out two versions large enough to make respectable pup tents, the computer had finally come through with a perfect fit.

Maybe a little too perfect.

"Oooohh, Pavel! Nice legs." Security Chief Lisa Thompson hooted at him from the far end of the corridor just as he thought he'd reached the blessed haven of the transporter room without further humiliation. Unfortunately, the doors also closed too slowly to mute the piercing wolf whistle she used to follow up her comment.

"She didn't say anything about my legs," Sulu said plaintively from the transporter platform.

There was much to be said -- and not just about the helmsman's legs. Chekov saw immediately that despite the many comments he'd received on his journey to this deck, his outfit was a more conservative specimen of Titherian fashion. The lieutenant's costume consisted of a blazingly pink cloak studded with synthesized Titherian gemstones and embroidered in white and green. His tunic was striped with the same three colors and his green suede half-boots sparkled with more "precious" stones. Sulu leaned jauntily against his own huge broadsword as if it were a walking stick, seemingly completely at ease in this outlandish attire.

"You really do look cute, Mr. Chekov," Lieutenant Kathy Hiroto purred from her post behind the transporter console.

Chekov decided to follow Sulu's example. He straightened his still rebellious cloak with a gesture that he hoped seemed arrogantly nonchalant. "Thank you, Lieutenant."

Sulu grinned. With a graceful flick of the wrist he swept his sword up in a circle and leveled its sharpened tip at the ensign. "Now, there's a man who didn't do his research."

Chekov blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Blue. Blue. I can't believe you wore that shade of blue," he chided, then turned to explain to Lieutenant Hiroto. "The Titherians are very color conscious. Each color has it's own symbolic significance. The color a Titherian wears is usually an announcement of what that person believes to be his or her best qualities and how he or she expects to be treated by others."

"Blue stands for integrity," Chekov protested.

"Teal blue is for integrity," Sulu corrected. "Royal blue is for ... well,... purity."

Chekov shrugged, reading no negative connotations into the word.

"Pavel," Sulu said with a significant smile, "I really mean... you know, purity."

"Oh, no." Any air of nonchalance that Chekov may have been carrying off thus far dissolved completely as he connected the Lieutenant's emphasis with a section he'd read on color and indications of sexual maturity.

"What does pink stand for?" Hiroto asked, mercifully diverting attention from him as his blush crept up towards the roots of his hair.

"Pink indicates truthfulness. White is for courage and pale green ..." Sulu let his voice trail off again.

"Let me guess," Hiroto said with grin. "It wouldn't be for sexual prowess, would it?"

"I'll never tell," Sulu replied with charmingly false modesty. "Actually, the computer chose it for me -- like it did Chekov's. It probably gave you blue because of your size, Pav. Adult Titherians men are very tall."

Chekov looked at his draped arms as if they were covered in blue slime. "I'll go change."

"Only if you need to, Pavel," Kathy Hiroto said wickedly.

"It could be worse," Sulu said optimistically. "For instance, dark greens symbolize lasciviousness and promiscuity."

"Ah, yes," Chekov agreed. "Like the old Earth term, "red-light district", the Titherians have a "way of the green ..."

Before Chekov could finish his analogy, the doors slid open to admit Captain Kirk, resplendently clothed in cloak and tunic of the deepest forest green.

"Mr. Sulu," the captain said in a tone that killed the giggles that rose in each of their throats, "that's the first and last time I want to see that sword out of its scabbard."

Sulu's causal attitude was lost as he hastily sheathed his weapon. "Yes, sir."

"That goes for you too, Mr. Chekov." Kirk pointed a warning finger. "We'll be attending these games as guests of Lord Ethyn. You are not to draw a weapon -- even in a case of self-defense -- unless directly so ordered. Anyone who even thinks of getting involved in a confrontation with a Titherian will be on report faster than he can say 'Organian Peace Treaty'. Do I make myself clear?"

"Understood, sir." Chekov cleared his throat as if that could help stop the burning in his cheeks and wished that the Captain had no reason to warn him against impulsiveness. "Captain, do you really think that our attendance at this gathering will influence the Titherians to ally with the Federation?"

"Command thinks so." The captain mounted the steps to the platform. "The Klingons visited over a month ago. Our sources indicate that if we mind our manners -- our Titherian manners -- we stand a good chance of making a far better impression than the Klingons did thus giving the Federation exclusive rights to Titheria's seikorioum mines."

"Ironic, isn't it, sir?" Sulu commented. "The future of this planet will be determined over rights to a metallic substance that's useless to the Titherians, useless to us..."

"But more precious than gold to the Klingons," Kirk finished grimly. "So goes the Galaxy, Mr. Sulu. Prepare to be on your toes, Gentlemen. As you know from the briefing, the Titherians are an obnoxious crew, but our orders are clear. We've got to get those mining rights -- at any cost." Kirk waited a moment to let his message sink in, then nodded to the transporter operator. "Beam us down, Lieutenant."

The incredible noise of the Titherians hit Chekov slightly before the equally incredible sight of them did, as the Enterprise group materialized into a rough circle of laughing, shouting, cursing and whistling natives. The nobles, all clad in a dizzying array of Titherian finery, were accompanied by a larger number of servants and retainers, and all were apparently anxious to see the offworlder's strange mode of travel for themselves.

Chekov no longer felt that he was dressed at all conspicuously in comparison to this dazzling mob. To top off their taste for vivid colors in clothing, the nobles, both male and female, dyed their long, teased manes of hair alarming shades of green, white, and purple, possibly to accent the delicate color of their rose pink skin. Commoner's hair, to judge from the servants, only came in shades of brown and dark blonde. Their eyes looked enormous and were topped not with eyebrows but with ridges of flesh that swept back across their temples and became delicate, curling antennae. All of the men and quite a few of the women towered over the humans.

A scrawny child -- girl or boy, Chekov couldn't tell, but obviously a commoner from it's lackluster apparel, twisted and wriggled its way to the front row of onlookers. It gazed up into Chekov's face, it's huge eyes widened to their fullest, antennae aquiver. A hesitant smile began to play on it's wide mouth. Chekov smiled back.

An instant later, the child's face was cut open by a flick from a lash held in a gloved and jeweled hand. The tiny Titherian clutched it's head and Chekov saw ugly blue blood seep between it's fingers before it was sucked back into the crowd.

Without pausing to think, Chekov started toward the attacker, but felt himself jerked abruptly back into a shoulder of human height.

"As you were, Ensign," his captain's voice, in uncomfortable proximity to his ear, said with dangerous firmness.

"Yes, sir," Chekov answered, but silently argued for action with a look that Kirk ignored as he released the handful of cloak and tunic he'd used to restrain him.

"Lord Ethyn greets you, Offworlders," said an unexpectedly feminine voice from behind them. The speaker, a tall woman with hair of shocking mauve, was immediately identifiable as Lord Ethyn's mistress from the intertwining of the green of sexuality and the silver of royalty in her hunting gown. Following the same logic, the indolent silver-clad Titherian lounging in a portable canvas seat next to her must be his Lordship himself. 

"I am Captain Kirk of the Federation Starship _Enterprise_." The captain was charm personified as he bowed deeply, hands extended with palms up in the accepted Titherian manner. Sulu's discreet elbow in his ribs prompted Chekov to do the same. With his back now literally turned to the situation, Chekov belatedly began to regret his near disobedience to a direct order from his Captain a scant ten seconds after arriving, but the enforced obsequiousness still galled him. He was amazed that Captain Kirk could dismiss such mindless cruelty without protest, but the Captain was continuing in polite tones, "These are my officers, Lieutenant Sulu and Ensign Chekov."

"Welcome, Lord Kirsh." It didn't sound like the lazy Titherian ruler was making much effort to get Kirk's name right. "Greetings, Lieutenant Sushu and Seiyatha Shekoz."

Chekov frowned as the fingers of paranoia walked up his spine. The Titherian ruler had not only badly mispronounced his name, but rather than using the local equivalent for "ensign" had identified him with a title conferred upon adolescent retainers. Lord Ethyn was in effect refusing to call him by a rank given to a man and was substituting a title roughly translatable as "squire" \-- the rank of a boy. This was probably all due to the damnable blue monkeysuit he was wearing, but Chekov couldn't help but feel he was somehow being singled out for ridicule because of his thwarted attempt to avenge the young commoner.

He got as far as opening his mouth to correct his Lordship, before he was speared with a look from his commanding officer that clearly informed him that if the Titherian decided to call him a Deluvian dung-worm, his orders were to take it and like it. Chekov gritted his teeth as he joined Sulu in another deep bow, convinced that he heard twitters of laughter from the crowd this time.

"To the hunt, then," Lord Ethyn said, rousing himself at last. A blast from a herald's horn summoned a flock of new servants leading their mounts for the day's hunt. Advised ahead of time as to the agenda, Kirk had chosen officers who knew how to ride although now Chekov began to doubt whether his experience with terrestrial horses would even begin to prepare him to control one of these strange beasts. The mere sight of such a huge, woolly, ram-headed thing was enough to daunt even the celebrated Cossack horsemen of old.

The massive beast was rigged with two saddles, separated by a fleshy hump not unlike that of a camel. As an obliging and extremely tall groom boosted him up into the forward seat, he looked back to see if it would be Kirk or Sulu who would be riding behind him.

"Majeen." Lord Ethyn held out his hand to his consort. "You'll ride with Lord Kirsh. Our sister Raiyshya will accompany Lieutenant Sushu. And for the young seiyatha..." His gaze swept the gathering. "I think Merchant Ferranton's daughter will do."

A hush fell over the assembly and a Titherian whose green hair tinting failed to completely conceal streaks of gray stepped forward. 

"I and my house appreciate the honor, my Lord," said the merchant with a correct bow. "However, as you see, my daughter is still ..."

Ferranton gestured to a young female who was dressed in a shade of blue that explained his objection.

Unexpectedly, Ethyn's consort Majeen threw back her head and laughed. "Don't you have eyes, Ferranton?" she asked merrily. "So is he!"

The assembled nobles joined her laughter as if it was all nothing more than an amusing joke.

Chekov frowned as he leaned down from the saddle to address Kirk. "Sir," he said quietly, but intensely, "by their own standards, this is a breach of etiquette."

"I know, Ensign." As Kirk chewed his lips and considered their alternatives, Chekov realized that by being assigned as the riding partner of the Titherian ruler's acknowledged mistress, the captain was being placed in a situation almost as precarious as his own. Apparently finding no solution, Kirk merely gave Chekov's leg a pat. "Just try to make the best of a bad situation, Mr. Chekov."

"Yes, sir," Chekov replied, knowing this to be easier said than done. On many parts of this planet, simply to touch a virginal high-born maiden such as the merchant's daughter was certain death. Why was the Titherian High Lord putting him in this awkward and potentially disastrous situation? Chekov was reminded of a report he'd read in which a sociologist -- one of the very few who'd visited the planet before them -- had remarked that although this society appeared to be strictly ordered by law and tradition, the people themselves were maliciously capricious in observance of those laws. Feeling every inch the victim of malicious caprice, Chekov pulled on a pair of padded riding gloves, while the groom adjusted the stirrups to his unusual height.

The Merchant Ferranton, holding the groom off with a glare, prepared to help his daughter to mount. Chekov's sense of chivalry compelled him to put a hand out to help her up. "My Lady."

Father and daughter turned their faces up to him with identical looks of surprise. By purposefully misidentifying the girl with a title a step above her rank, he was paying her a compliment in the same mode that Lord Ethyn had employed to insult him. At the same time, he hoped he was reassuring her protective parent that he would treat the young lady with respect.

"Thank you," the merchant's daughter replied, properly cold and distant as she swung into the second saddle, until her mouth came near his ear and she added a mischievously whispered, "Ensign."

Looking into the father's cold face, Chekov wasn't sure that the merchant had missed this byplay.

"Mind the green ones, Schquitha" Ferranton said grimly, as he handed his daughter a bow and quiver of arrows, "they're tipped in poison."

Chekov knew that he should be paying attention to the merchant's veiled threat, but he was momentarily distracted by the enchanting sound of the daughter's name. "Sha-kwee-tha," he murmured experimentally, pronouncing it as he'd heard it.

Horns sounded and the great gates of the courtyard were thrown open. Chekov's mount surged forward, almost ripping the reins out of his hands. It, along with the rest the creatures like it, left the gates behind in a series of wild plunges. For the next few heart stopping moments, it was all Chekov could do to stay mounted on the bounding beast. Controlling it was out of the question. In a moment of panic, he twisted in his seat to see if he'd lost his companion. She was not only still there, but seemed far more at ease than he with her hands securely wound in the long hair of their mount's hump, breathless and laughing with enjoyment at their headlong dash.

Chekov turned back in time to narrowly avoid being hit in the eye with a clod of dirt thrown up by the hooves of the mounts in front of him. They were too far back in the pack to see, but the braying of a horn announced that their quarry -- a Titherian wratha -- had been spotted. A few minutes later another blast signaled that the first arrow had hit it's mark. A frenzied yapping from behind told them that the "hounds" had been released, and an instant later there were dozens of the lithe, lizard-like creatures streaking alongside the "horses".

Their prey was now in sight. Hairless, white, rhinoceros-sized, the wratha was already staggering, its bloodwashed hide bristling with gaily fletched arrows. Mounted nobles and dancing hounds circled it as it slowly sank to the ground.

Chekov's mount veered to the left, overshooting the killing ground. By standing up in the stirrups and putting his full weight into hauling the reins, he finally managed to bring the beast down to a bumpy canter and turn it back towards the hunting party. This presented a problem in and of itself and Chekov cast about in his mind for a method of politely declining to take part in the kill. As if in answer to his thoughts, his companion placed as small hand on his shoulder.

"Don't go in," she said in bell-like tones. "This bowstring hurts my fingers."

Relieved, Chekov guided his mount around the perimeter, noticing that several others seemed to be taking this option too. Among them was Sulu and his lady rider, who'd completely halted their mount. The lieutenant sat with his thigh propped comfortably against the hump separating him from his companion. Chekov couldn't imagine how the helmsman could engage in carefree conversation over the dying moans of the wratha.

Suddenly there was a strangled yelp form the killing ground. Through the crowd, Chekov saw one of the nobles, dressed all in shades of purple, move forward and drag something from the melee. It was the limp, slate-grey body of one of the lizard-creatures.

"I call for witness!" the noble shouted out to the crowd, lifting the body of the creature into the air and then unexpectedly throwing it down at the feet of the Merchant Ferranton.

"Father!" Schquitha cried softly, slipping down from their mount to go to his side. Chekov followed, pausing only to toss the reins to a waiting groom.

The nobleman pulled the protruding shaft of a distinctively marked arrow from the throat of the animal and held it up for the assembly to view. "It was your arrow that killed my favorite hound, Ferranton," he said through his teeth. "My prize blue!"

The merchant wiped the spattered blood off his face, making a show of his indifference. "Your pardon, Fayashir, cousin to my liege," he said, coldly correct in his recitation of the traditional formula of apology. "Anything of mine of equal value is forfeit to you."

"Good," a cruel smile crossed the nobleman's lips as he pointed to Schquitha. "Then I claim your prize blue."

"Lord Ethyn?!!" No longer pretending ironic Titherian detachment, the merchant roared out his protest to the Titherian ruler, who was still on horseback. From behind him, Chekov could see Kirk and Sulu moving in on foot.

"Such is the law, Ferranton." Ethyn said with a shrug, seemingly unmoved by his subjects' plight. "I see no impediment to the claim."

With a triumphant smile, Fayashir reached out a long arm and pulled the screaming, clawing girl towards him using a fistful of her long hair. He would have laughed at her ineffective efforts to resist him had he not been stopped by the surprising sensation of Chekov's fists making violent contact his stomach. The impact of this unforeseen attack also robbed him of the options of breathing and standing. He was momentarily puzzled to find himself sprawled on the ground. The small offworlder stood over him, one arm protectively thrown around the woman he had just claimed.

"Keep your hands off of her!" Chekov said, ignoring his captain's shout of, "No, Chekov!"

The Titherian carefully sized Chekov up as he slowly rose. "I invoke my rights of ownership," he said, narrowing his eyes dangerously.

Despite his own anger, Chekov recognized this as being a very serious turn of events. Apparently Lord Ethyn's mistress did not for she laughed and said, "Come now, Fayashir. You needn't provide all the entertainment for the day."

As Chekov watched the nobleman silently reconsider his position, he realized that Majeen's levity was not as frivolous as it seemed. She was providing Fayashir a last socially acceptable way to back out of the confrontation before Lord Ethyn would be forced to take action. If the nobleman laughed, the incident would simply be forgotten.

Fayashir did not laugh. "Is my claim just, Cousin?" he said, turning to address his question directly to Ethyn.

"Oh, very well," Ethyn sighed, as if he were grudgingly consenting to something no more significant than including green peas on his luncheon menu. He snapped his fingers and a retainer placed a wicked-looking coiled whip into his hand. "But you must do it yourself. And, Cousin, do take care not to kill him. Remember that he is a guest."

Chekov's stomach took a sudden nosedive as Fayashir held out his hand. Ethyn's words meant that he had not saved Schquitha. The night would probably find her innocence being forcibly taken by this barbarian. There was nothing more that he could do. Worse than that, what he had done had quite probably just doomed their entire mission to dismal failure.

"Name the count, my Lord," the Titherian Lord said calmly.

"Wait a minute," Kirk interrupted, stepping forward as Ethyn tossed the whip to the nobleman. "What's going on here?"

"Nothing good, Captain." From seemingly out of nowhere, Sulu materialized at his side. "By attacking him, Chekov made challenge to Fayashir's claim of ownership on Schquitha. Lord Ethyn upheld the nobleman's claim and Fayashir requested that Chekov be executed for touching his "property". Lord Ethyn has spared his life, but is in the process of passing sentence."

"Lord Ethyn," Kirk said. "I'm sorry if Mr. Chekov has violated one of your taboos, especially one that obviously is so meaningful to you and I assure you that he will be punished. However, we have our own methods administering justice. Corporal punishment is against our customs."

For the first time an active and calculating intelligence was visible from behind Lord Ethyn's mask of lazy indifference. "Ah," he said. "So now we see the way the Federation truly operates. No doubt it will be your own customs that you will insist on after you have procured a trade agreement with us.... despite your protestations that you will not interfere with or change our culture. You recognize our right to be ourselves as long as we do not offend your sensibilities."

Kirk cleared his throat to help him get over that touchy point. "I assure you that's not our intention..."

"Good," Ethyn said amiably. "I decree a count of twelve."

"Now see here..." Kirk took another step forward.

Chekov stepped between them. The situation looked beyond saving, but there was still one option left open to him. "Captain, I'll take the penalty for my actions."

"Chekov.." Kirk began warningly.

"Captain," Sulu interrupted from his other side, "If Chekov doesn't take it, the Titherians will take this as a direct challenge to Lord Ethyn's right to rule. He will be compelled by tradition to duel with you for the control of his fiefdom and whether you win or lose, that'll put us in direct violation of the Prime Directive and the Organian Peace Treaty."

"It's the only honorable option, Captain," he said quietly as Kirk took a moment to consider the truth of this.

"By our traditions," Lord Ethyn's deceptively relaxed voice said, "to indicate your acceptance of sentencing, you must disarm."

Chekov put his hand on the hilt of his sword and met his captain's eyes steadily. He could see in the other man's face the torment of being torn between his responsibilities to his mission and his concern for the safety of his officer. Kirk frowned and for a moment Chekov was afraid that anguish of Kirk the captain would overpower the demands of Kirk the Star Fleet officer. Apparently the officer won for after pausing his captain gave him a curt nod. Chekov drew the long sword and handed it to a groom beside him, while another removed his cloak. Squaring his shoulders, he turned to face Fayashir who had retrieved a length of rope from his saddle.

"Come here, Offworlder," he said, motioning Chekov forward.

Chekov began to have his first serious doubts as his feet began to move. It had all been very well when they were discussing the situation in terms of abstracts like honor and justice, but the reality was rapidly becoming quite appalling. He had never really been hit by anyone with anything substantial in his whole life. Now, however, he'd just cheerfully volunteered to be beaten by a seven foot tall man with a fifteen foot long whip. 

From close up, the Titherian seemed even larger. "Hold out your hands, boy."

"I am not a boy," Chekov said, narrowing his eyes as he offered his wrists. 

"We'll see," the nobleman answered dourly as he securely bound him and then turned him around by shoulders. "Sorry about the loss of your fine costume," he apologized dryly as Chekov felt a blade slip down the back of his collar and slit down to his waist.

"Don't mention it," he replied in the same spirit, although the naked flesh of his back crawled in tingling anticipation as the cool breeze hit it. He avoided Kirk's eyes in the crowd, but noted that the captain and Sulu were now carefully surrounded by retainers of Lord Ethyn. With a tug of the rope that bound his wrists, Fayashir led Chekov to a nearby broad-trunked tree whose lowest limbs were well above his head. 

"A little closer," the nobleman urged, tossing his rope over one of them. With a painful jolt, Chekov suddenly felt himself hauled up sharply. His chest slammed into the trunk as his feet came almost completely off the ground.

"Comfortable?" Fayashir asked, wrapping the rope around the trunk.

"Perfectly," Chekov answered from between his clenched teeth as he tried to balance on his toes.

From the other side, he heard a ripping sound and he turned to see the Merchant's daughter tearing off one flowing sleeve of her garment.

"Bite on this," she advised him calmly, winding the material up into a ball. "It isn't good form to scream."

"Thank you," he said, then added, "Schquitha, I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she replied stoically as she gestured for him to open his mouth. "What color will you bleed?"

"Red," he said marveling at her detachment. She too, he realized, was forced to play the role of the uncaring observer to survive in this cruel and heartless society.

He noted that she did not look into his eyes as she nodded approvingly and fitted the gag into his mouth. "That's a lucky color."

"Out of the way," Fayashir ordered as he ripped the remaining shreds of fabric from Chekov's back. "Are you ready, little Offworlder?"

Chekov took a a deep breath and nodded as he closed his eyes. Then there was a horrible sound that he was never to forget -- the sound of the whip being shaken out of its coils and drug along the ground and Fayashir's voice saying, "One."

Afterwards, Chekov wasn't able to remember whether or not the Titherian continued to count aloud. All of his other senses faded to insignificance in comparison to the tactile input from his back. That and the number twelve were the only important things in the universe.

The first blow hurt -- even though he was intellectually prepared for excruciating pain, it hurt far more than he'd imagined. It felt like being clubbed with a hot branding iron. Without the silencing impediment of the gag, he knew the sound that escaped his throat would have been a scream.

Having suffered through the first, he was prepared for the second. When the pain came again he squeezed his eyes closed to catch the tears he couldn't stop and bit down on the gag trying to believe that he could live through ten more of the same. The third blow taught him why he could not as it cut across the welts left by the first and second, splitting both open and sending several warm trickles of blood down his spine. The unbelievable pain didn't stop now. It only crescendoed with the impact of the fourth and fifth strokes. The fifth one slammed his chest into the tree trunk, knocking the breath out of him. The impact of the sixth came before he had a chance to recover. Amidst his panicked thrashing as the seventh blow arrived, it finally occurred to him that he should spit the gag out, but it was already too late. Somewhere between the eighth and ninth, Titheria went brown around the edges and faded to buzzing blackness.

"You're killing him!" Kirk shouted, finally breaking free from his Titherian guards only to be forcibly restrained again by four more. 

"I told you not to do that," Lord Ethyn scolded mildly, as Fayashir felt Chekov's face for signs of life.

"I'm done with him," the nobleman announced, cutting the ropes that bound Chekov's wrists and turning away uncaringly as his limp body fell. "Come with me, Schquitha."

Sulu got to Chekov almost before he hit the ground. "He's alive, Captain."

"Two to beam up, Mr. Sulu," Kirk ordered, turning to glare at the Titherian ruler.

"Interesting," Lord Ethyn commented as Sulu dematerialized with Chekov in his arms. "Would you say that your seiyatha was typical of your people? Would any of you sacrifice yourself to uphold a principle -- for "honor" as he said?"

"Yes, honor is important to us" Kirk replied, the diplomat in him barely restraining the soldier's impulse to turn that statement into an accusation. "As important as justice and fairness."

"Which makes you totally unsuitable for us." Lord Ethyn shook his head.

"What do you mean?"

"We refused the Klingons because we immediately saw that they were stronger and would eventually absorb our world completely. But the Federation would destroy us just as surely."

"Our policy of non-interference states..."

"A wonderfully fair and just law," the Titherian interrupted. "Which is my point. On Titheria, we do not value justice and honor. We value power and privilege. Sooner or later you would be ethically compelled, as the seiyatha was, to challenge our way of life -- to subvert and change it to one more compatible to your own. And so you too would obliterate our culture in your own way."

"Lord Ethyn," Kirk began, although he wasn't sure exactly what he could say in answer to the Titherian's charges.

"Send on the next government," Ethyn interrupted, waving a lethargic hand at him in dismissal. "What are they called? Orions? Take heart, Captain Kirk. They may prove more successful than you, but they're not likely to prove any more amusing."

* * * * *

Chekov was lying on his side when Kirk came into Sickbay, receiving one rather agitated guest.

"...ended up going with him anyway after all you went through," Lt. Hiroto was saying. "What a cold-hearted little bitch! I say just forget her."

"Captain!" Chekov automatically tried to sit up as soon as he detected Kirk's presence.

"As you were, Ensign."

"Ah, that may take a moment, Captain," Chekov said apologetically, as he gingerly lowered himself back to his former position. "Lying down is the hard part."

"He's not been awake very long, sir," the lieutenant warned him, placing herself protectively between them. "He can't take a lot of excitement yet."

Kirk had waited a day and a half to let Chekov recover, but could tell that at least one person in that room didn't feel that that had been long enough. From the looks he was getting from Hiroto clearly communicated that she felt he'd be at home twirling the ends of a big black mustache. "Thank you, Dr. Hiroto. Still sore, Mr. Chekov?"

"The cuts are gone, but the bruises..." Chekov broke off, uncomfortable for a reason other than his back. He struggled back to an upright position. "Sir..."

"Lieutenant," Kirk interrupted, gesturing Hiroto to the door, "if you wouldn't mind?"

"No, sir," she replied obediently although her whole aspect continued to argue non-verbally to the contrary. She got all the way to the door before she could no longer suppress a final warning and plea, "Remember, not too much excitement."

"Ensign," Kirk began as the door closed, trying to forestall any comment, "About the incident on Titheria..."

"I disobeyed your orders, sir. I unnecessarily antagonized one of the natives thus creating a situation..."

"Mr. Chekov, please." Kirk held up a hand. "Leave something for me to say."

"Yes, sir."

Now that he finally had the floor, Kirk needed a moment to reorganize what he'd come to say. He decided to start with the bad news. "I assume from what I overheard, the lieutenant told you about the Titherian girl..."

"I don't understand, sir," the young man burst out, his brown eyes full of anguish. "How could Schquitha be described as being 'content' to marry Fayashir?"

Kirk, too, had found the official Titherian account of the incidents taking place after their departure a bit hard to swallow. "You have to remember, Ensign, that in the conventional standards of their culture, Fayashir didn't do anything unacceptable. He is also a powerful and very well-connected person. Your young friend had little choice but to make the best of a bad situation...."

Chekov lowered his eyes miserably, "So nothing I did had any effect at all..." 

"Oh, I definitely wouldn't say that, Ensign." Kirk corrected with a note of ruefulness.

"No, sir." The young man sank even lower into the murk of his personal pool of despair. "Pending the court-martial, I respectfully suggest ...."

"Hold on, Ensign," Kirk interrupted. "Whose court-martial are you talking about?"

A tiny ray of hope turned Chekov's statement into a question. "Mine?"

"I should think a student of Mr. Spock's would know better than to make broad assumptions without access to up-to-the-minute information," Kirk chided.

Chekov leaned back carefully, not letting himself dare to be hopeful. "No, sir."

"All right then," Kirk crossed his arms. "To begin with -- yesterday while you were lying here luxuriating in unconsciousness, you and I were in a great deal of trouble."

"You, sir?"

"Oh, yes. Star Fleet likes it little enough when they feel that I am disrupting alien cultures. When it appears that I am also training my junior officers to do so..."

Chekov swallowed. "But today we are in less trouble?"

Kirk nodded. "For some reason after the Titherians talked to the Orions, they decided to reopen negotiations with the Federation."

"Orions?" Chekov paused and thoughtfully chewed his lower lip. "Was the contact visual?"

"It could have been."

"That explains it, sir. Orions have orange skin."

"Yes?"

"Orange in Titherian color symbology indicates..." Chekov searched for a polite way to state the expression, "...sexual deviance. The Titherians were unable to overcome their ethnocentric prejudices."

"At any rate the negotiations have been reopened on different level with an awareness that both cultures have some growing up to do if the relationship is going to work. Real compromises must be made... not just polite ones."

"I still don't feel that we should compromise, sir. The Titherian government is callous and unjust."

Kirk nodded. "I feel the same way, Ensign. I think the Titherians have, like your Schquitha, just been making the best of a bad situation for too long. I also think that Lord Ethyn was right when he said that no matter how firmly we adhere to the Prime Directive, the presence of the Federation will irreversibly change this culture. Exposure to us and our values will inevitably show the Titherians that there are other possibilities."

Chekov shook his head sadly. "I just wish those changes could have come quickly enough to help Schquitha, sir."

"Well, actually..." Kirk smiled. "Our most recent report from the planet told us that a group of the young lady's kinsmen abducted her from Fayshir's apartments last night. They left him tied up in red ribbons."

"Red?" Chekov repeated, puzzled. "The color for luck?"

Kirk shook his head. "No. It seems that we have already inadvertently introduced them to a new stimulus, Ensign. The Titherians had never seen a shade of red the color of human blood before."

"The color of my blood," Chekov said softly, awed by the realization as it hit him. "What do they say it stands for, sir?"

Kirk smiled as he placed a strong hand on the young man's shoulder. "Honor."

*** End *** 

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in the fanzine "Edge of Forever #3"
> 
> This was my first -- and only -- writing collaboration with Berkeley Hunt. It was actually my first foray into writing collaboratively all around. We wrote this in 1988, I think. It was a challenging experience. Not bad. Challenging, though. We both brought healthy egos to the project and re-wrote each other's contributions liberally. I felt like a lot of good material from me got left on the cutting room floor. However, what we came up with was very tightly plotted. It doesn't wind around my solo projects do. There's also not a noticeable shift from my narrative style to hers like you can sometimes find in my collaborations with Jane and some of my other writing partners. However, as I said, even though, we were friends for a long time after this, we never tried to write another story together again... 
> 
> Note: The character Lisa Thompson was named for a very enthusiastic Chekov fan from England who was a friend of Berkeley's. I think Kathy Hiroto may have been named after a real person too, but I'm not as sure about that.


End file.
